Blood Lines

against the concrete and watched the parade of people pass by. A baby in a backpack, barely visible under a hat and mittens and a scarf and a snowsuit, caught his attention and he grinned up at it, wondering if it could even move. Jeez, the kid's gonna spend the first few years of its life only seeing where it's been. Probably grow up to be a politician .
    The baby appeared to be gazing in happy fascination at the man who walked along behind its parents although, as far as Tony could tell, he wasn't doing anything to attract its attention. He wasn't a bad looking man either; quite a bit of gray in the hair and a nose that hooked out into tomorrow but with a certain something that Tony found attractive.
    Guess he likes kids. Sure is staring at that… that… Jesus, no.
    Under the pale blue hat with its row of square-headed yellow ducks, the baby's face had gone suddenly slack. The bulk of its clothing held it upright, arms reaching out over the carrier but Tony knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that the baby was dead.
    Cold fingers closed around his heart and squeezed. There was now no gray in the hair of the man who followed.
    He killed it . Tony was more certain of that than he'd ever been of anything in his life. He didn't know how it had been done, nor did he care. Jesus God, he killed it .
    And then the man turned, looked right at him, and smiled.
    Tony ran, instinct guiding his feet. Horns sounded. A voice yelled protest after a soft collision. He ignored it all and ran on.
    When even terror could no longer keep him moving, he collapsed in a shadowed doorway and forced great lungfuls of air past the taste of iron in the back of his throat. His whole body trembled and every breath drove a knife blade, barbed and razor sharp, up under his ribs. Exhaustion wrapped itself shroudlike around what he'd seen, dulling the immediacy, allowing him the distance to look at it again.
    That man, or whatever he was, had killed the baby just by looking at it.
    And then he turned and looked at me. But I'm safe. He can't find me here. I'm safe . No footsteps sounded in the alley, nothing threatened, but his scalp prickled and the flesh between his shoulder blades twisted into knots. He didn't need to follow. He's waiting for me. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. I don't want to die .
    The baby was dead.
    They'll think the baby's asleep. They'll laugh about the way babies sleep through anything. Then they'll get home and they'll take it out and it won't be sleeping. Their baby will be dead and they won't know when or how or why it happened .
    He scrubbed his palms across his cheeks.
    But I know.
    And he knows I know.
    Henry.
    Henry'll protect me.

    Except that sunset wouldn't be for hours and he couldn't stop thinking of the baby's parents arriving home and finding… He couldn't just let that happen. He had to tell someone.
    The card he pulled from his pocket had seen better days. Limp and stained, the name and number on it barely legible, it had been for years his link to another world. Clutching it tightly in a sweaty hand, Tony moved cautiously from his hidey-hole and went looking for a pay phone. Victory would know what to do. Victory always knew what to do.
    'Nelson Investigations. No one is available to take your call, but if you leave your name and number, as well as a brief reason for your call, after the tone, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you."
    'Shit." Tony slammed the receiver down and laid his forehead against the cool plastic of the phone. "Now what?"
    There was always the number scrawled on the back of the card, but somehow Tony doubted that Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci would appreciate having this kind of thing dumped in his lap. "Whatever kind of thing it is. Jesus, Victory, where are you when I need you?"
    He shoved the card back in his pocket and, after a cautious examination of the passing crowds, slipped out of the phone booth. Squinting at the sky, he began making his way back to Yonge and Bloor. He knew where Henry was and the hours between now and sunset would only seem like they were taking up the rest of his life. With any luck.
    The boy had seen him feed; or been aware, at least, that he had fed. Apparently, there were a few in this age who had not built barriers of disbelief around their lives. The incident was of interest but placed him in no danger. Who would the boy tell? Who would believe him? Perhaps later he would search him out and, if he could not be used, he was young enough still